![]() It occurred to me, as I kept reading, that my hands had begun to imperceptibly help tear off each page after I’d finished it. But I was convinced that the book wouldn’t survive if I tried to take it with me, that I had to finish it right then and there - light or no light, pain or no pain. I kept reading and the book just kept falling apart in my hands. Before I realized it, I was more than halfway through the story. I had never before read anything by Hamsun, for no particular reason, but I found his tone captivating, his prose sparse and direct. Half-smiling, I said to myself that it seemed as if the book wanted to be read one last time, by one last reader, before completely disintegrating - an act that somehow mirrored the narrator’s journey. Every time I finished a page, that page would fall off the spine. Then the same thing happened with the third page, and the fourth, and the fifth, and so on. Strange, I thought or maybe even whispered in the middle of an empty plaza, and I continued reading with two pieces of paper in my hand. But when I finished both sides of the second page, that page also fell off. Was it me? Did I pull on it too harshly? I decided to keep reading. ![]() ![]() But as soon as I finished reading both sides of the first page, that page fell off the spine and I was left holding it in my hand, a bit confused. ![]()
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